


Behind the Counter

by Blueroses_23



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bartenders, Canon Compliant, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Cute, Drinking, Drunkenness, Ficlet, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Other, POV Outsider, POV Third Person, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, don't drink and drive kids, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:26:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28126842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueroses_23/pseuds/Blueroses_23
Summary: The scene where Crowley drinks his pain away in a bar, as seen from the perspective of the bartender (you).(It has a sweet ending.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 123





	Behind the Counter

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the Southern Pansy server for helping me flesh out this little idea!

“Another one!”

This phrase is as familiar to you as the rattle of the door when a patron walks in. What  _ isn’t  _ familiar is this bespectacled fellow, who appears to be on quite the bender.

Still, you’re a professional, so you fetch another bottle of whiskey for the dapper red-haired gentleman and bring it to his table. 

You can’t help but notice how expensive the man’s clothing is.

Or the fact that he’s been sitting there, alone, for several hours. 

It was rather early on a Saturday to be drinking so heavily, but you suppose the man must need it. After all, the eyes behind those tinted glasses look a bit puffy. Perhaps he was going through a breakup, or a divorce? 

It was impossible to tell, and it's not your place to ask. You are, after all, just the bartender. 

All the same, you feel the need to watch over this man. The more he drinks, the more he talks to empty air. He’s too far away for you to hear everything he says, but what you do hear is, frankly, somewhat bizarre. 

Falling from Heaven? Lucifer? Something about a pool of boiling sulfur?

It's all nonsensical babbling, of course, undoubtedly brought on by the extraordinary amounts of alcohol the man was consuming. You almost have to admire him for still being conscious. He is, after all, only rambling like that because he doesn’t want to cry in public; you can hear it in his voice.

Not long into the second bottle, though, you can’t help but notice a shift in the man’s behavior. He begins to talk more loudly, even to squint and gesture, at no one in particular. He even waves around an old green book with singed edges.

_Oh the poor thing_ , you think. _He’s really lost it._

Abruptly, he goes quiet.

Then he grabs the book, stands up so quickly that he knocks his chair over, and nearly sprints for the door.

Startled, you open your mouth to call out to him (a Mr. Crowley, you believe?) - ah, but then you see the small, folded stack of cash resting on the table. Even from behind the counter, you can tell that there’s more than enough to cover his tab.

Even so, something in your gut tells you that something isn’t right. What was it?

Ah, yes: the car keys. 

An exceptionally drunk man was about to get behind the wheel of a car. 

As a decent bartender (and person, overall), you just can’t allow that. Wiping your hands on your apron, you hurry to follow Mr. Crowley. He did seem to be in quite a rush; perhaps you can at least convince him to take a taxi?

A cloud of exhaust fumes greets you when you swing the door open, and you cough slightly. 

Just barely, you catch a glimpse of an antique black car as it speeds down the road, around a corner, and out of sight.

You stand there for a moment, dumbfounded by this  highly unusual  string of events.

Eventually, you shake your head and go back inside to clear up the man’s table. The money he’d left behind was double the amount owed; you might’ve just earned the biggest tip of your entire barkeeping career. 

It would cover your bills for the rest of the month, almost exactly. You can’t help but wonder about that. But surely it was just a coincidence.

You never see Mr. Crowley at the bar again, but in the weeks that follow, you often find yourself thinking of him.

You wonder what happened to him that day. You wonder why he was so sad.

You wonder if he’s still sad.

Still, you have your own life and your own problems, and you dutifully tend to them. But that strange man, in his strange clothes, with his strange eyes, is never too far from your thoughts.

Then, one day, as you run errands about Soho, you happen to pass by an antique book shop. It looks old-fashioned, but appears to be in good repair and is curiously charming. You don’t dwell on it long - you have things to do today.

However, as you pass by the front doors, a shock of familiar red catches your eye, and you stop.

Did you just imagine it?

Unable to help it, you step closer and peer through the window. 

At first, there’s nothing. Then, from behind a shelf further in, steps none other than Mr. Crowley.

Not far behind him is a slightly shorter, portly older man in a worn-out velvet vest and camelhair coat. 

His face is round and bright like the sun, the blue eyes twinkling. Just looking at him makes you feel warm and safe, like all is right in this corner of the world. 

When he smiles, so does Mr. Crowley.

And so do you.


End file.
